


Canyons

by QSF



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Character Explorations, Fluff, Herald POV, M/M, oh and smut, spoilers for retribution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20031601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QSF/pseuds/QSF
Summary: Exploring Herald's views of Sidestep and their new relationship.





	1. Canyons

There’s a weight to the world beneath you that you don’t share anymore, but are desperate to capture. A sense of important worthy of coal, of harsh lines and deep smudges that leaves your fingers coal black, and the edges of the paper marked with fingerprints.

Leave your mark on the world, your father always used to say, but you know he didn’t mean it this way.

Art is something you buy. A sound investment. A thing to show off.

You cant buy a city, or perhaps you can, but not this one. Too broken, too disjointed, too without rules and too real in a way that borders on the fantastic. Ugly. Sprawling. Beautiful. Painful.

There’s a slight wind, and you have to readjust your position, drifting back to the edge of the roof to get the angle right. You never quite do, there’s a dip between the skyscrapers, the black shadows of the streets like scars into the earth and you want to dry to get the depth, but there’s something lacking. So you keep trying.

And maybe that’s it, maybe that’s the beauty of it, you can’t capture it, like your father wanted you to. You just watch and hold and kiss and there’s a face in your mind, smile like a crack, like the grand canyon, crooked and filled with mysteries and secrets. Water is soft but it erodes the hardest stone, leaves scars soft and smooth for kissing and there’s a new page now, the city abandoned for the darkness of a remembered face, and here the coal slides easily, touch-memory, sharp cheekbones, sunken eyes, too tired, fingers rubbing shadows in too bright eyes, the eraser bringing highlights to the skin, sharp, white lines tracing scars, thin, hard pencil filling in the details from memory.

“What are you doing?” A voice drifting through the wind, from the rooftop below, an anchor, a string to your balloon and you drift down, your smile growing wider.

“How did you know I was up here?” You don’t question the joy in your gut, the time for second guessing is over, you’re in love and if you weren’t already familiar with how cold and wet the clouds truly are you would have been on cloud nine. Instead you land next to him, feet touching lightly, then the weight of your body bringing you into his realm.

“Lucky guess,” he evades, like always. Sidestep still in action if not in name. “Hope you don’t mind I let myself in.”

“I gave you a key for a reason,” noting that you’ve got one of the scars wrong, it’s above that little bump on the nose, a telltale sign of it broken once and never really reset. Not below. You chide yourself for forgetting, then kisses said nose, then the smile that’s started to grow, welcoming the anchor his arms provide. “Thank you for coming up here,” you whisper. “I know you don’t like heights.”

“Eh,” he says with a shrug, a noncommittal sound that could mean anything. “What were you drawing?”

“The city,” you admit with a sheepish grin, showing him the picture, not bothering to mention the face hiding on the next page. “I just never seem to get it right.”

“Huh.” Another little word that could mean a dozen things, but he wraps an arm around you like a cat draping itself across your shoulder, looking down at the smudged paper. “Looks good to me.”

“That’s the problem,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It’s too clean.”

“Of course it is.” An amused laugh, and he kisses your cheek. “What do you think you can see from up here? Fucking architecture, that’s what.”

“That’s not true.” You wipe your cheek, giving it another black smudge, and you see the way his eyes go soft there for a moment, an unguarded thought, an open smile and you let your own go wider and “Let me show you!”

“Up there?” The smile fades and his eyes narrow, but you don’t let him pull away. He’s dragged you down and shown you the streets, it’s only fair that you get to show him how the other half lives.

“I won’t drop you,” you assure, putting down the sketchpad so you have both hands free. “I promise.”

“Fine,” he acquiesces, wrapping his arms around your neck.

“Really?” You know your smile is too wide, too bright, but you don’t care to tone it down around him. What’s the use of being happy if you can’t show it?

“Don’t rub it in.” There’s the faintest of gasps as you lean down to sweep him up in your arms, something that always seems to surprise him. Maybe you don’t get across as strong, but you’re stronger than you look, and in your arms he feels light as a feather. Especially as you slowly drift up, making sure that there are no sudden movements.

You notice that he doesn’t look down, instead his eyes are fixed on your face. You can’t help the faint blush, you’ve never really gotten used to the way he looks at you, like the Sistine chapel on a sunny day, like seeing the ocean for the first time. A look of wonder and disbelief in equal measure.

“You’re going to have to look down,” you chide gently, making sure to position yourself so the wind is at your back, tugging at your hair. Small protection for him, but it’s all you can do.

“Fine,” another sigh, his grip tightening as he stares down at the city as if offering it a challenge. Maybe that’s what is, holding his hand in the candle flame, because you can feel his heart speeding up. “What am I looking at?”

“Life,” you say, following his gaze. “It’s not architecture, it’s people. Nobody made plans here, at least not much.” The city is filled with scars, surviving pre-quake neighborhoods intersecting with newly built ones, spiraling out into ruins and slum, massive scars still not healed. Just since you moved here almost ten years ago the scars have shrunk, the city healing before your eyes.

“It’s a fucking trainwreck, that’s what it is.” He sounds more thoughtful than dismissive. “Disjointed. Wrong.”

“Beautiful,” you counter with. “Fascinating.”

“They sky’s beautiful.” He looks upwards instead, face unreadable even to you. “And the clouds.”

“But the sky is empty.” You start drifting back towards the rooftop. “And the clouds are wet. There’s no people up there.”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“You know something?” You land on the roof, still holding in his arms, feeling his weight hit your arms, fighting hard not to let him slip. “Dress warmly one day and I’ll take you up there one day when it’s cloudy. Up above the clouds. Up above the smog. So there’s just us and the sun.”

“I… might take you up on that.” He wriggles out of your arms, and you pretend that you’re not grateful for it, he was getting heavy. “I like the sun.”

“It’s a date then,” you smile widely at him, and gets rewarded with a reflected smirk and the faintest of blushes. Does he know how cute he is? How much he makes your body tingle just by being near? His blush deepens so you give him a wink. “Wanna go inside?”

“Let’s.” He takes a decisive grip on your hand, pulling you towards the stairs. There’s a strength to his grip that’s downright thrilling, you’ve never really gotten over how this makes you feel.

It’s not like you’ve had any experience with men before, and girls were a different story. A softer one. There’s nothing soft about him, angular and hard, scarred in ways you can’t understand, only try to empathize with. What is it inside you that makes you crave this? Crave his hands on your body, the way he looks at you like you were holding the rifle at his execution. It shouldn’t be this dangerous to fall in love, but for him it is, but he’s dooming himself anyway.

Can you do any less?

Three kisses in the stairwell, almost stumbling over each other before the door slides open, depositing you inside.

“Get the blinds,” he mumbles, nipping at your lips, sending shivers down your spine.

You free yourself reluctantly, walking over to the panel, dragging your finger over it until the windows are opaque like milk. Only then do you turn around and see him watching you, arms crossed, like…

…there’s a thrill of desire running through your body, twined with one of fear.

A predator. That’s what he looks like, and for a moment you feel your hands go up in defense, and then he steps closer and you use those same hands to pull him in and hug him. What does it say about you that you like the way he makes you feel? That you like being manhandled? Does it make you less than a hero? Less than a man? You don’t think so, but it’s hard to let go of what life’s been telling you.

You’re working on it.

For him. With him.

Maybe it’ll be easier one day.


	2. Baggage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the smut.

Maybe it’ll be easier one day…

Maybe for you, but for him?

Your hesitations are all cultural, his run much deeper than that. Your clothes come off without effort, his fingers worshiping your naked skin, but his are like pulling teeth. Even though you know his secret, there’s still a panicked reaction when you slide your hands under his shirt, pulling it up. Pulling it off. No protest, but he dives into the kiss with renewed passion, drowning himself in sensation.

In you.

You wish it was easier. You wish he could believe that you find him beautiful, as beautiful as the city he’s insulting on a regular basis. Finding faults, but missing the point that faults are what makes things real. Scars are signs of survival, and his tattoos…

Can you even call it tattoos? He’s an early Mondrian painting in search of a rigid shape, a late Kandinsky in orange and scars… a work of art real enough to make your act of kissing him almost reverential, and you hear the annoyed slash embarrassed huff of a breath expelled as you do.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, growing warmer under his probing gaze, harder under his roving hands, and yet you continue with all the sincerity you can muster. “Sooner or later you have to deal with the fact that I find you beautiful.”

There’s no answer, just emotions flitting across his face like bats disturbed in the daylight, not quite knowing how to react. There’s no answer, so you kiss him, softly, reverently, dragging him towards the bedroom. Your living room doesn’t need more memories to make you blush when you’re alone, there’s something almost sordid in the things you’ve done here, the memories painting you pink at inopportune moments. How you are going to deal with it the next time Ortega comes over you have no idea.

The bedroom is better. Softer. More private.

“I don’t get it,” he admits as you’ve crossed the threshold, back in his arms, skin against skin, hooking your fingers in the lining of his pants. “I don’t get you.”

“Do you need to?” There’s a look on his face that’s almost disapproval, as if he’s looking for an angle. A sign that you are playing him, lying to him, being anything other than genuine. “Just let me like what I like.”

“You have the worst taste,” but the smile breaks the frown into shards, not a broken mirror of bad luck, but the first ice on ponds broken by the smallest pebble.

“I have good taste,” you protest, undoing his pants. That still makes your breath hitch and your heart speed up, brushing against the evidence of his interest in you, pulling it out, touching it as he steps out of his pants. Mutual nakedness now, and you both step closer to take refugee in the other’s skin.

In each other’s mouths. In each other’s hearts.

You can hear the muffled chuckle through the kiss, but there’s no protest as you break it briefly, to drag him down on the bed, on top of you. Weighing you down. An anchor.

You wonder sometimes, if he gets it. How hard it is to just let yourself be grounded when everything in your life tells you to just stay above it all. You could. You were raised that way, to be distant and aloof, to look down on everyone. You were raised that way, but you’re a bad student, and you don’t want that life anymore. You don’t even want the role they pushed you into as one of the Rangers, but you’ll play it if you have to. Play the hero. Play the pure one. There’s nothing pure in the way you grind up against him, and there’s nothing heroic in the way you just want him to destroy you right now. Wreck you. Pick you apart and make you forget everything outside this room.

“Be careful what you wish for…” his lips are soft against your ear, the whisper dangerous enough to make you shiver even without the added “…hero.” at the end.

“I’m not as soft as I look,” you tease, your fingers leaving smudge marks on his body. No more coal left on your fingertips, the stains are shared now, like the sweat and the desire. “You know that.”

“I do,” he’s forced to admit, wiry muscles tensing as he’s pressing you down into the bed. Is he stronger than you? Maybe. You’ve never had to try it, because this is just playing, rubbing up against the danger. Just for thrills, you know he would never hurt you. Not really.

The kiss is filled with a desperation you don’t understand, but which you accept, how long was it before he dared to get naked with anyone? Are you the only one? His first? That thought makes you blush bright pink, and it’s spreading to his cheeks, to his ears, and he presses his forehead against yours with a frustrated groan of “you’re terrible. The worst.”

“Because I love you?” Your words are the softest of slaps, and he doesn’t recoil as hard as he did the first time, but his eyes still shift downwards. Love. A dangerous word, but you’re not afraid to use it.

He is.

So in lieu of words he slides kisses and bites down your chest, tearing gasps from your throat because even though he’s gentle he can be cruel. Not that you mind, not with the careful way he kiss the spot after each bite, looking to catch the look on your face, as if your body and mind wasn’t already telling him everything he needs to know.

That you want this. Want him.

Another thing you never thought you’d want. You thought you wanted to be him, not have him swallow your cock in one sloppy motion, making you grab the covers so you won’t hover upwards. Effort. Focus. Stay grounded, look at him, not looking at you, fingertips digging into your thighs, nails pinpricks of contact. But you wanted to be the man in the mask, and there are no masks here, not his, not yours. And you want him, with waterslide intensity, the lurch in your stomach, half fear, half elation, only the barest semblance of control.

Oh he’s enjoying that.

It’s written on his brow, furrowed in concentration, in the way his fingers slide from thighs to balls, another point of contact, tugging you close, tearing a gasp from your throat as you let your head hit the pillow. He loves this, loves taking you apart, be in charge, do things to you. Maybe one day he’ll trust you enough to let you do the same in return, but you understand the need for control on intimate levels.

Sometimes you just can’t afford to break.

You can, you can afford to squirm for him, to let out a keening moan when he releases you from his mouth with one final, stomach-twisting suck, licking his lips with the lewdest expression you’ve ever seen aimed in your direction.

“Please,” you say, and it’s softer and wetter than you intended, but his eyes flash in the semi-darkness, and he leans up to kiss you, tasting of yourself and your ears grow warm because this is so far from what you fantasized about in your bedroom at night that you think you’re off the map and the planet by now.

“Begging?” he teases, and you can feel him twitch against you, growing harder.

“Of course I am,” you whisper, half a needy growl. “I want you.” The briefest of pauses, one heartbeat shared between you. “You. I want You.”

Because you do. You speak the truth here, there’s no lies between you, no pretension. You want him, and you know he wants you, enough to take his time, enough to tease, slippery fingers working you open, putting you on display, the lewdest of visuals and if you could you’d float to the ceiling but he’s slipped on a condom and there’s no mercy in his eyes. Not that you want it, and the look on your face sparks a predatory grin on his, and then he’s inside, and you’re burying your face against his shoulder, biting back a hiss of protest at the sensation.

Another thing you’re getting used to, getting used. Fucked. Sordid names that makes you think of other, darker things, but he’s making it real in ways you can relate to. Help you find the shadows, the wrong angles, the grime at the foot of the world. Helps take you apart and put you back together again, the right way, not the way they made you but the way you want to be.

You want this. You want to be okay with this. With him. No baggage, no pain, and you want him to feel the same way.

Saving each other. You can do that. He called you a hero.

All you have to do is be one for him.


	3. Training

“It’s my fault,” you say, wincing slightly at the touch of the cold-pack to your cheek. “I should have been faster.”

“You should,” he agrees, but the frown that has settled down between his eyebrows does not. He looks guilty, in a way you suspect he’d hate, a sign of weakness and remorse. He has a lot of them, always hidden the moment he notices you looking. Is he too focused on you right now to bother hiding it? Or does the cracks run too deep to hide? “You should have just fucking hit me.”

“What?” Your smile is a little awkward, but your lip is cracked and you will probably get a black eye so it’s not by intent. The little guilty shift of your eyes is, and of course he latches onto it.

“I’m not an idiot, I know I fucked up and left an opening, you could have stopped me.”

“By punching you in the throat,” you admit with a wince. “I didn’t want to actually hurt you.”

“Even if that meant I actually hurt you?”

“It’s a black eye, not the end of the world.” This time your smile comes easier, but his frown only deepens.

Is he seeing the same image you are? Of his fist connecting to your face, your parry a moment to slow, recovering just in time to see him ready himself for the throw. An opening. A split second opening where you could have hit him, right in the throat, and a split second decision to not do that. The world turning topsy-turvy as he grabbed you, using his full body weight to slam you into the rooftop hard enough that your powers only softened the blow, still leaving you dizzy. Another blow. Sitting on top of you, a look in his eyes of fury, of fear, you didn’t mean to be afraid, it just…

“The point of this is that you’re supposed to hit back.” His voice is harsh, words cutting you both to the bone.

“It’s training. It would be different if it was a real fight.” You reach out to touch his arm, but he pulls back. Gets to his feet. Deepens that frown.

“Would it?” The question is tossed at you like a challenge.

“I’m a Ranger. I fight villains.” Your voice goes softer, quiet. “You’re not a villain.”

“Ugh,” he throws out his hands and looks everywhere but you. “Were you as frustrating when Ortega trained you?”

“Probably,” you admit. “It’s hard to…”

“Hard to do what?”

“Hit you,” you admit.

“Why?” The surprise on his face is mingled with suspicion, as if he doesn’t want to believe you.

“Because…” you hesitate, because it’s a question with easy answers and hard ones. The easy one is that you love him, you don’t want to hurt him, but… the harder one is what slips through your lips. “I think too many people have.”

“Have what?”

“Hit you.” You look down, giving him the privacy he so dearly wants. “The way you… when we train. Ortega is expecting to be hit, but it’s a game of tag, tap out and you’re done. Marshal Steel is… harder. But he always steps away, giving you time to get back up. You…” You look up at him now, eyes murky pine forest in the fire season, waiting for a spark. “You fight like you’re not expecting to get back up if you go down.”

“If you keep thinking like that one day you won’t.” He’s back in control, arms crossed, you’ve seen him stare like this at Ortega, unfocused intensity, an inner turmoil you have yet to decipher. Why did you deserve that particular glare? What sore spot did you hit?

“There’s a difference between training and reality.”

“Is there?” A twitch of his scarred lips. “Is there really?”

“There is.” You get back on your feet despite the fact that he didn’t offer you a hand up. Rely on yourself. The cold-patch has made your fingers numb. “You can afford to lose.”

“Yeah, not doing that.” But he doesn’t step back when you approach, just frowns a little and places his hand over yours. It feels feverishly warm, trapping your freezing digits between the cold-pack and your cheek. “Just look what happened to you.”

“A lot worse things than this,” you say, stepping closer. “And I’m still here. As are you.”

He kisses you instead of answering, aggressively, desperately, the cold-pack slips away and you’re too numb to wince. Instead you wrap your arms around him, shoulders tight, like hugging wreckage, sharp, cutting into you, but you keep holding him until he relaxes slightly, breaking the kiss with a choked laugh.

“What’s so funny?” you whisper, not letting him go.

“This.” Another chuckle, and he rests his forehead against yours. “Us.”

“Do you trust me?” you ask, whispered into his lips, a suggestive idea for later.

“No,” he admits without hesitation. “I can’t.”

“You told me the truth.” Your hand slips a little lower, across his breastbone, across the layers of secrecy. Not real. Not human. Someone told him lies long enough that they’ve sunk into his bones.

“Only because I thought it would make you leave me alone.” His hands wander lower, friendly while his words are harsh, cupping your ass and pulling you against him hard enough to make you gasp.

“Do you really think I’m that weak?” It’s not an accusation, you know how you come across, how they want to portray you. The human face of the Rangers.

“You can’t even hit me.” It’s half of an answer, and you’re sifting out the rest from the implications he’s left along the way like breadcrumbs.

“Fine.” You gently free yourself, taking a step back so you can look him in the eyes. “Let’s do it again.” There’s no explanation given as you raise your fists in a challenge, because you’re not sure you can put it into words he’d want to hear. He can’t trust you. Not really. He can’t let himself be weak. Lose. Relax. He can’t, expect in stolen moments soon forgotten. Why? He won’t tell you, and in this you can’t read between the lines. He’s been hurt. That you know. And you know that you made a mistake when you tried to deal with him as if you’d been Josh, the point driven home when he raises his own fists with a cocky smile, shadows banished for the moment.

You didn’t want to hit him because he expected to be hit. You didn’t want to hurt him because that’s what happened all his life. All you wanted to do was love him, protect him, keep him safe, but you can’t do that if he doesn’t trust you. And he can’t trust you if he thinks you’re weak. If he thinks you’ll break. Fail. Die.

“Not going to go easy on you,” he says, but the words are softer somehow, said with a smile.

“I never expected you to.” The truth, offered up like your own body. You thought love would be enough. You were wrong.

It’s going to require work as well.


	4. Trust

Home. Your home. But he’s here. Like so many times lately. It’s increasingly becoming your home, plural. You like that thought, maybe a little too much, so you keep it hidden as best as you can under the blanket of warm fuzzy feelings you always get when he comes over. You still can’t shield yourself very well, but you are getting more adept at pushing the thoughts you want him to pick up to the surface. Hiding the things that make him frown.

You far prefer his smile.

“You do know that every time you show up with one of those t-shirts, I think I’m losing about a month of my art education.” You’re the one smiling now as you run your finger along the black fabric, emblazoned with a Technicolor unicorn dueling a marlin against a Miami sunset.

“Mhm,” he says, voice softening as he watches your face, not bothering to hide his amusement. You know you shouldn’t mention the prints, once you did they just escalated in tastelessness, but you like the way your annoyance makes him smile, a little teasing game where the only stakes are good taste.

“It’s…” you shake your head, there’s sparkles there, in the pinkish neon of the sunset. No, wait, is that supposed to be around the horn? How is the unicorn standing on water anyway? Horn versus sword, how did they…

“It’s art, that’s what it is.” His grin has widened, reached his eyes, and you shake your head.

“No,” you say firmly. “Perhaps kitsch…” if you were generous…

“Hey, stop complaining about my fashion sense.” A kiss to your cheek, a soft nuzzle, nipping at your ear. “These are for tormenting Ortega, not you.”

“And my taste is collateral damage then?”

“You get to take it off. He doesn’t.” The smuggest little smirk.

“True, but…” you strip him of his hoodie, still feeling privileged that you get to do that, strip some shields, some layers, not down to the skin but almost. You’ve learned to take your time. Nakedness is a double-edged sword between you.

“But what?” His fingers are busy, even though he has far less to strip. Fingertips over your stomach, sliding under your shirt, soft, so soft tonight. Is it one of those nights? The good ones?

“It would be nice to see you in a suit.”

“Dream on.”

“I am.” You slide free of your shirt, closing your eyes and focus on how nice he would look in one, slim and elegant, cut just right, narrow waist, wide shoulders, a tie to tug him closer and…

“You’re terrible.” But he surrenders his t-shirt anyway, lets you strip him to the skin, not that he seems naked to you. Not really. Not with the tattoos subtly tracing his form, broken up by scars and freckles. Not a blank canvas, too many layers there, what was the intention of the original artist?

“Because I think you look good?”

“Suits,” he hisses, with a vehemence usually reserved for whatever new annoyance Ortega has subjected him to. “Who do you think I am?”

“Someone who’d look good in them.” You don’t bother to hide your smile, because he would. There’s nothing wrong with dressing up now and then, pretending to be someone you’re not. His fingers hesitate at your belt, and you place your hands over his to steady them. “If you want I’d take you to a tailor? You don’t have to undress or trying anything on,” you assure quickly. “Just taking the measurements.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” he mumbles as you step out of your pants, and that’s as close to a yes as you’re going to get.

“I won’t make you regret it.” It’s hard, but you’re getting better at reading his protests, the subtle difference between fond annoyance and actual dislike. You’ve teased him into more things than you thought possible, than maybe he thought possible too.

“Don’t make promises you can’t kee…ep.” His breath hitches as you pull his pants down, and you lean in to kiss him to soften the mood.

Things have changed since you first kissed, gone softer, calmer. He doesn’t seem to need the anger the same way, there’s a gentleness to his hands as he touches you now. Not that you minded the roughness, you’re not lying to yourself about that. But you’re glad that he feels like he can show you who he is without having to make a challenge of it. That he can allow your hands to roam as well, not exactly accepting that you find him attractive, but working less hard at proving you wrong.

Good. He should let himself be worshiped sometimes, even if your thought makes him groan as the two of you tumble to the bed, soft, yielding, rolling once, twice and somehow you end up on top.

A pause. A held breath as you look him in the eyes, trying to decipher the tenseness there. Your weight can’t be that heavy, but he acts like you’re made of stone, sucking in a breath as you kiss his throat, your tongue tracing the tendons down to his collarbone.

“I would never hurt you.” You don’t know what possesses you to say those words, maybe something in his eyes, something afraid of getting caught, held down, trapped. What happened to him in the past? You don’t know and you won’t ask, he never has to worry about that with you, never has to drag up anything he wants to keep hidden. Your gift to him is his privacy. You know far too well how important that can be.

“You couldn’t if you tried,” he lies, and you try to not see the twitch of his lips, the way he tenses as you kiss his chest, the barcode etched there.

The scars.

Did he…? You stop your thoughts before they reach their conclusion, you don’t want to ruin this with speculation, even if the scars… but does it matter? You love him, and you kiss the scars as well, sliding down, feeling him tense and wriggle underneath you, too restless to just receive, used to being in charge, calling the shots, setting the pace.

You pause, your breath tickling the trail of hair continuing downwards from his navel. You pause and focus, thinking hard about the fact that he is. Calling the shots. Setting the pace. All he has to do is to say something, and you’d go along with it, but maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea to just relax for a little? Let you take care of him?

Protect him?

Both of you ignore the little twitchy sneer that crosses his face, and the hand that snakes down to ruffle your hair is almost an apology. You never thought being in a relationship would be this complicated, the hard part was always supposed to be the getting together. After that, wasn’t there supposed to be a happy ending?

So naive. He doesn’t say it but he doesn’t need to. You know you are, but it’s less naivety than hope. Do you know anyone in a happy relationship? Anybody who has worked things out? No. Nobody. Certainly not your parents, or their friends, or… well, maybe Owl. She seems happy.

“Do you need to think about her when you’re sucking my dick?” Exasperated fondness, and you wonder if he brings it up because he likes seeing you go bright crimson.

“Sorry,” you say, focusing back on what you’re doing, on his hands in your hair, on the taste and that doesn’t really make you less red, it’s still new and fresh and far too sexual, a year ago you wouldn’t have thought you’d do this to another man. Let alone enjoy it.

But a year ago you thought he was dead, and whatever confused feelings you had in the past were hero worship, and they were. You never pictured…

This.

The look on his face. The sounds you tease out of him, including that little groan because he can’t help pick up your thoughts, but that’s on him. He’s the telepath, he’s got shields, right?

“Asshole,” he mutterers, in the fondest way possible, and you smile around him, enough that he slips out, leaving you free to reply.

“I thought I was too soft and innocent?” You wrap your fingers around him instead.

“And an asshole.” A sucked-in breath and his teeth are sharp against his lower lip.

“But I’m a hero,” you tease, not sure if it’s wise to bring that up, sometimes it rouses things in him that are both terrible and exciting. Not tonight though, just the softest chuckle.

“Again, an asshole.”

“Would an asshole do this?” You lean down again, your tongue just tracing the tip, feeling the shiver as you focus hard on picturing you impaled on him, riding him, clenched tightly around him with something far warmer than your hand.

“We tried that,” he says, the chuckle filled with enough desire to almost be a groan. “Someone had issues with floating away.”

“You’re the asshole,” you reply, cheeks still red, because that’s true, you still have problems controlling your powers when you gets too excited, that’s why you like him pinning you down, holding you securely. Your anchor. But…

You can’t stop the thought, it’s taken root, quickly moving towards blossoming. You on the bed, pressed down, him on top of you, riding you instead. Setting a slow pace, letting you see every twitch of his face as he presses down, watching him…

“Stop it,” the command is sharp, and you pause your hand, your tongue retreating to your own mouth for now. You can feel his cock twitch, close, and you let it go, trying to think unsexy thoughts as he tries to get a grip on himself.

“Sorry,” you say, clearly not sorry, because you wouldn’t have minded if he came already, he’s never been an ass about it, always making sure to take care of you as well.

“I just…” he presses his knuckles against his forehead, forcing himself to even out his breathing.

“I’m taking it as a compliment,” you assure, wondering if you’re reading him right, there’s something else there, a tension you can’t put your finger on but which makes him watch you a little too intensely, a little too deeply. Is he reading your mind? Maybe. You’re not sure what it feels like, but you have no secrets there. Not from him. You love him. You want him to be happy. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.

“Doesn’t it?” He reaches down and pulls you up, you oblige, crawling up to settle on him, lightly, like a blanket.

“Not for me.” You understand why he’s suspicious. He’s a re-gene, and you force yourself to stop thinking about that, because you want the bedroom to be a happy place, not filled with bitter memories, but you meant what you said. You will protect him. You won’t let anybody take him ever again. Won’t let anybody hurt him. Even if it’s the government.

It’s a cynical laugh, or maybe a sob, and he pulls you into a tight embrace, your head on his shoulder so you can’t see his face. He’s holding you tightly, a little too tightly, but it’s okay, and you do your best to make him understand that it can be okay for him too. At least for now. You’ll figure something out.

You love him too much not to want to save him.

“I don’t…” a whisper in your hair, a shaky breath and the whisper becomes words. “You’re hopeless.”

“Yep,” you admit, a little too cheerfully, and that teases a laugh from him. “Luckily enough for you.”

“For me.”

“I love you.”

This time the words doesn’t cause a wince, or a laugh, or any other reply other than his breath in your hair. The relaxing of his muscles. A quiet moment that becomes longer and longer until a muttered “what the hell” and a kiss to the top of your head.

“What?” You shift to look up, into the confidently smug face that you love.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day.”

You have no time to reply as he rolls you over, trapping you beneath him for a deep kiss.

“What?” you ask once you can breathe again.

“Your little fantasy,” he clarifies with a toothy grin, “looked interesting.”

Your fantasy? The one with him on top of you, writhing, impaled…. oooh. “Oh,” you say out loud, eyes going wider. “You want to…?”

“Why the hell not?” It sounds like he’s asking himself that question, challenging whatever part of him that might object. He’s back in control now, less soft than sharp, but you’re not his prey, not right now. You’re not what he’s fighting. Himself maybe? His own objections?

“You don’t have to…” you begin, but his finger presses against your lips before you finish.

“I know. But I choose to.”

“Okay.” You swallow hard, trying to get over the feeling that you’re a bystander in an invisible battle. You don’t understand him, especially not now, but you do trust him. Trusts his judgment. Trusts him to tell you if it becomes too much. If something goes wrong.

“I really do…” his words break off before he can finish the sentence, was there supposed to be a love you or a want this at the end? You don’t know, and his eyes give no clues as he leans in to kiss you once more.

He doesn’t need to tell you for you to know it’s true. He doesn’t need to tell you that he loves you, even if you tell him enough times to make him cringe. He doesn’t need to tell you in words, because he tells you in so many other ways. In the ways he kisses you, in the ways he leans into your touch despite the reflex to pull away, in the ways he relaxes and lets down his guard when you’re curled up on the couch, in the many, many ways he makes you smile and laugh and makes you happy in a way that’s not just artifice. Your smile is not for the cameras anymore.

It’s for him.

Trust. It’s never come easy for either of you, but you’ve had hope to temper your hurt, and he’s never had that. You think. He doesn’t talk about it. You try not to think about it.

The point of this is to stop thinking, isn’t it?

To relax and be together, to shut away the outside world, and the past, and the future. Just the two of you.

Working him open, one finger at a time. Slowly, lightening the mood, trying to get him to relax. It’s hard to hide how hot you think this is, that he’s letting you do this to him, no, not to, with. Do this with him. This is a mutual decision, and it’s he that rolls the condom on you, presses you down on your back with a warning glare.

“If you starts floating and smash me against the ceiling, I will end you.”

“I’ll try not to,” you say, smile wide and disarming, hands up as if he was holding you at gunpoint. “It’s pretty high ceilings in here.”

“Oh for…” he mutters, trying to keep hold of a frown, but your smile is too infectious and he leans forward slightly, as if he was leaning into your mind, into your thoughts.

Steeling himself?

You understand if he’s nervous. You were. Petrified and horny at the same time. It’s…

It’s a big step, you suppose.

And one you’re taking together.


End file.
